Author Topic: What's on your Paste?  (Read 619063 times)

« on: May 05, 2009, 09:09:25 PM »
The title seems sufficiently self-explanatory, so without further ado, let the paste-ing begin! If you feel inspired to participate, simply place the contents of your paste option into a reply... provided that said text is TMK-approriate, of cour-- meh, no moderator would dare trudge through this 55-page wasteland of moral depravity known as Forum Games anyway.


Anyways, here goes:
« Last Edit: May 05, 2009, 09:11:28 PM by Weegee »
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  • Paid by the word
« Reply #1 on: May 05, 2009, 09:10:09 PM »


  • i can make this whatever i want; you're not my dad
« Reply #2 on: May 05, 2009, 09:19:20 PM »
Hannan: Voters may be sentimental about seal clubbing, but this doesn't make them wrong. Lots

"Right this way, sir."

"Thank you, Emil."

Emil. It had a nice ring to it. It'd been a long time since he'd heard that. Most of the other politicians who frequented this place didn't care what your name was. But this one was different. If he wasn't genuine, he was at least a hell of a lot better at feigning interest than most.

So, this was the one that they called... well, The One. Emil didn't buy into all that stuff, but looking at him now, maybe there was something to it. There was definitely something out of the ordinary about him. He almost had an otherworldly glow about him. No, wait, that was the spaceship above the cab.

"Wait, what the hell?"

"What is it?"

"Sir, there's a spaceship flying above us!"

"I'll handle this."

With one swift motion, the svelte president-elect swung himself out the open window, landing deftly on the yellow roof.

"I have a bad feeling about this..."

The strange ship swerved around, approaching the cab head-on, lasers blasting. The president had no problem deflecting them with his bright blue pillar of light, but if the ship decided not to turn back, it would rip through that car, durable American-made piece of work though it may be, like a neutrino through plasma.

The delicious chocolate man heroically leapt, aided by the all-powerful Force, and landed akimbo on the TIE's cockpit. The door atop its roof opened with a single wave of his fingers, making for a very surprised pilot, dispatched without a hitch.

Suddenly, a crackly voice came in over the inexplicably low-quality speaker atop the futuristic dashboard.

"TK-1117, come in."

"Uh... Roger," he replied, doing a serviceable impression of the late pilot's disguised voice.

"Return to base. There've been some changes."

"Uh... yes sir."

The autopilot kicked in, sending the TIE en route to its base somewhere back in its own galaxy. He knew instinctively how to turn it off, but he couldn't. If anyone was going to change, he wasn't just going to be there, he was going to be it. As he safely buckled himself in, he thought to himself how glad he was he'd thought to activate that robot doppelganger before he left. This was going to be a long trip.


Meanwhile, in a faraway corner of the White House, Joe was hard at work testing out the flavors of the gum stuck to the back of the presidential bookcase. It was a tough squeeze getting back there, and quite frankly, at this point he wasn't completely sure how or why he had gotten back there in the first place, but as it turned out, the former presidents and vice presidents in this room had owned some really tasty flavors of gum, so it was pretty much worth it. He would have to ask Nancy to add a few million for a presidential gum museum next time he saw her.

He was now reaching for a lump more brightly colored than any other piece he had seen before. The neon green of that gum -- probably indicating a delicious lime flavor, his second or third favorite -- was calling out to him like a horned owl calls out to PeTA. Nothing else mattered, least of all the pain in his limbs as he strained to reach it. A little farther... farther... oops.

The bookshelf came crashing down with an earsplitting thud, landing facedown on its spilled books. This was going to take a while to clean up. Startled by the noise, Hillary quickly yet deliberately stuck her head through the doorway.

"Something fall again, Joe?"

"Yeah," Joe admitted sheepishly.

Hillary sighed, trying to convey her weariness, though unable to suppress a bit of amusement and playfulness. She was on a schedule, though, so without any more delay, she quickly walked over to the fallen credenza and, with one swift motion, lifted it back up on its feet. She would have loved to stay and help Joe put the books back on it, but she didn't have the time now. Besides, he had done it so many times already that he probably didn't need much help anymore.

As Hillary slinked back out of the room, Joe's embarrassment started to sink in. How could he have been so stupid? Ever since middle school, he just turned into a complete klutz around pretty girls like her. He scolded himself -- he shouldn't be thinking thoughts like that. Both he and she were married, professional adults. They were both better than that. Even if there were a chance of a relationship, it would be wrong... or at least not a good choice politically. That worked a bit better.

But all that would soon be forgotten. Joe noticed a book that he couldn't recall seeing on this shelf before. About the size of a notebook, all black, and made out of some mysterious material he couldn't quite figure out. He flipped through it... almost totally blank, but for a dark page at the beginning with a long list of items written in rough lettering. Giving them only a cursory glance at first, they soon caught his full attention. Had it really said that? He looked again.

The human whose name is written in this note will die.


Joe ran.

He had been driving for a while -- many hours, probably, as he had apparently gotten to New York City somehow, though they'd felt like only a moment -- but driving was too disconnected, too distant, too sheltering. Running was primal. Running gave this matter the weight it deserved. No, only a fraction of it. It needed more. He lifted both legs simultaneously, slamming his face into the blackened sidewalk, and began clawing at his fancy Armani jacket.

He had killed, and he needed it to sink in before it was too late. The faces of the ones whose lives he had written away flew before his eyes -- they had to, as he could only kill those whose faces he knew. As impersonal as he wished it was, the personal aspect was unavoidable.

In those brief moments where he allowed himself to take the focus off himself, his thoughts turned to the others -- as far as Shigao knew, or was willing to disclose, there were at least two other notebooks out there in human possession right now, both in Japan -- that was probably what Hillary was going to talk about.

If these people were indeed the mysterious serial killers he had heard about in a recent press conference, why did they kill the people they had? Murderers, rapists, child molesters, other (presumably less noble) serial killers -- all of them despicable people, to be sure, but why only them? Why not the dictators, the terrorists, the slavemasters, the corrupt CEOs? Joe had to admit that he still wasn't sure how to get Arabic names to work in the book, after trying over a dozen times to kill Bin Laden over the last week, but surely these two were much more skilled with it; if nothing else, they had had nearly two years of experience with it by now, and probably more polite Death Gods.

Why... were they thinking so small?

Yes. That was it.

Was he really thinking it? But it came so naturally. He asked himself whether it could be true, but he knew in his heart that such questions were only delaying what he already knew.

And why had he so feared it? After all, he had been a politician for more years than he cared to remember. Who had known better than him what it was like to end lives with the stroke of a pen, all for the greater good? This... this was natural. Nobody messes with Joe.

A maelstrom of conflicting thoughts still battling -- perhaps futilely -- in his mind, he picked himself up off the pavement, a few drops of his own blood having mingled with the various globs of discarded gum and vomited tobacco. He brushed himself off, put his hair back into its normal, now almost comical state, and hailed a cab, then watched himself step inside, where he heard a muffled "La Guardia" escape his lips, then float up to the ceiling. And suddenly, that very ceiling lit up in orange and green squares.

"Hey! You're in the Cash Cab!"

"Oh man, I wish being a part of a Mario fan community was the most embarrassing thing about my life." - Super-Jesse


  • Ridiculously relevant
« Reply #3 on: May 05, 2009, 10:17:01 PM »
Odd, yet intriguing concept.

"Mario is your oyster." ~The Chef

Captain Jim

  • TwinklyMuffin
« Reply #4 on: May 05, 2009, 10:19:13 PM »
What is the principal managerial arm of the executive office?
No! I don't want that!

« Reply #5 on: May 05, 2009, 10:19:42 PM »
He needs to keep spewing hate! That way, he can continue to make conservatives look really, really bad.

EDIT: (No offense to those of you offended. I was talking about Rush Limbaugh on Yahoo! Answers. Interesting/fun concept, by the way.)
« Last Edit: May 05, 2009, 10:24:33 PM by PaperLuigi »
Luigison: Question everything!
Me: Why?


« Reply #6 on: May 05, 2009, 10:39:00 PM »
In a show in Montana, another of his assistants, Glenn Corbin, was injured in one foot. Surgery had to be done.

« Reply #7 on: May 06, 2009, 01:02:28 AM »
"I don't know why they're called boyshorts! Boys don't wear shorts that short!" - Mitchie


  • 黒松
« Reply #8 on: May 06, 2009, 04:16:44 AM »


  • i can make this whatever i want; you're not my dad
"Oh man, I wish being a part of a Mario fan community was the most embarrassing thing about my life." - Super-Jesse

« Reply #10 on: May 06, 2009, 08:19:17 AM »
1-866-436-5703 (Am Idol's Kris Allen)
If she is indeed genetically mutated such that she has an eye in the back of her head, then I guess that she is genetically mutated and has an eye in the back of her head.


  • Banned
« Reply #12 on: May 06, 2009, 01:30:32 PM »
how many

« Reply #13 on: May 06, 2009, 03:21:06 PM »

What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs in your mail box?

What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs water-skiing?

What do you call a girl with no arms and no legs rolling around on the beach?

What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs in a hole in the ground?

What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs trying to hold-up a bank?
One Ring to rule them all. One Ring to find them. One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.

« Reply #14 on: May 06, 2009, 03:28:39 PM »
Luigison: Question everything!
Me: Why?